


Many Headfuls of Nasty, Evil Things

by kaijuvenom



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Angst, Basil is just sad and gay, Dorian is a bimbo, It's Oscar Wilde It's Either Angst Or More Angst, M/M, What's new, but i am losing my mind, i am descending into dark academia and im not mad about it actually, i have no braincells left please read this, i haven't written anything in so long, it's so stupidly metaphorical and flowery and i regret nothing, quarantine really fuckt up my ability to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23696239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijuvenom/pseuds/kaijuvenom
Summary: The beauty of some things in the world is something indescribable, ineffable, and mysterious. The beauty of Dorian Gray is the most mysterious of those things, and Basil would do anything to learn the mystery of him-until he realized he could have lived with never knowing, would have rather never known, but by then it was too late.When I try to sleep at night I think of Penny Dreadfuls and it's all because of you, and I clutch my pillow tight, but a power beyond my bed pulls me to places where I ruminate on nasty, evil things. I try and try to clear my mind, but I find my mind's been intertwined with gory thoughts and there's nothing I can do.
Relationships: Dorian Gray/Basil Hallward
Comments: 5
Kudos: 32





	Many Headfuls of Nasty, Evil Things

**Author's Note:**

> i am. so tired. i havent seen the sunlight in seven years. i havent felt the touch of another human. what year is it. who am i anymore. maybe my real quarantine buddy was my possessed coraline doll i keep on my nightstand all along. this is a cry for help.

A certain form of opulence presents itself in some people; it isn’t visible by the way they dress or how they speak, but it oozes from the very air they breathe, the air that fills their lungs and pushes out without the slightest inkling of an idea that it had just been inside the body of someone for whom to call a god would be an understatement to end all understatements. The astounding sense of opulence was a thing that Basil Hallward was well acquainted with, he spotted it every time he looked at Dorian Gray. 

“ _I feel as though I’ve given my whole soul away to someone who treats it as though it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day_ ,” Basil had once said about him. The compliments he showered Dorian in seemed to breeze across his smooth skin, landing only for a few seconds in his eyesight, before he brought up a hand to brush them away like a wayward blonde curl with nothing but a laugh. Of course, there was a way to tell Dorian Gray exactly how terribly he meant the words of adoration he so frequently spouted, but it was a route he’d promised himself he would never travel. 

At the current moment, he was wondering how long he could get away with running his fingers through the smooth hair that was draped across his shoulder. Dorian hadn’t thought to complain about the touches as of yet, in fact, he seemed quite relaxed, face tilted upwards towards the sky, basking in the dappled sunlight. Basil turned his attention away from the golden hair between his fingers, looking back at the book he was meant to be reading. It wasn’t the most brilliant piece of literature he’d ever read, but it wasn’t necessarily bad; only a cheap dime novel Dorian had picked up from who-knows-where and begged Basil to read for him. He still wasn’t clear on the reasoning behind Dorian’s want for him to read the book aloud instead of Dorian reading it himself, but it wasn’t anything he was about to question—as mentioned, he was allowed the absolute pleasure of combing his fingers through Dorian Gray’s hair as they rested against a tree in Basil’s garden. It was quite ideal for Basil, and seemingly ideal for Dorian as well—though likely in a very different way. 

Basil finally brought it upon himself to look away from the man he so helplessly adored and instead attempted to bring his full attention back to the book before Dorian noticed too long of a silence. He cleared his throat and resumed reading with a final glance at golden hair. 

“There was no sign of life about the place, and the buildings were fast falling into decay. Weeds and vines and wildflowers grew all about the yard, and everything looked desolate and forlorn,” he read, softly, voice only traveling a few centimeters away from his mouth before fading into the sounds of the breeze rustling through the tree above them. 

“Do you think this place will ever look like that?” Dorian suddenly spoke, his voice a whisper of pure, lighthearted innocence. 

There was a short silence as Basil considered the question, what Dorian may mean by his words, and what he might not, but before he could respond, Dorian was speaking again. 

“I mean, once we’re gone, what do you suppose it’ll do? Do you think someone else will come ‘round, take care of this place just as you did? Or that they’ll tear it all down and run it through with a paved road and little shops?”

“I’d like to think it’ll stay just the same as it is right now. The same as it’ll always be.” 

Dorian turned his head, turned so he was looking at Basil’s face, head still resting on his chest. It was the severity of the closeness that was making Basil’s cheeks color, as well as the expression on Dorian’s face. It wasn’t one of annoyance or anger, but it was something… resigned. Tired, even. But still with that underlying look of youthful hope, an innocent expression Basil could never quite pin down the meaning of, no matter how often he thought of it.

“Do you really want that? For time to not lay a finger on anything in this garden, to let it stay this way forever?” 

The gravity with which Dorian asked the question made Basil stop before answering, and he stared up, where Dorian had been looking before, up at the trees, the flowers, the quietly chirping birds, then back down at the golden curls framing Dorian Gray’s face, the porcelain frailty of his skin glowing in the light. His lips were parted, forming into a kind of natural smile that could do nothing but leave anyone who spotted it breathless. His silken blouse was half undone, but his chest was hidden by the positioning of his arms, crossed around him casually as he looked up at Basil, eyes wide and glistening, waiting for a response. As if he were actually interested in whatever it was Basil would have to say. As if it were nothing and somehow everything to him, as if it were real. 

“I’d like to think something so beautiful will outlive me, stay exactly as it is and keep itself locked in this singular moment in time. I’d rather age into nothingness myself than watch something this perfect become flawed,” Basil finally answered, watching as Dorian’s expression morphed into something sweetly calm, lips tilting upwards in a more genuine smile. 

He wanted to ask what it was that made Dorian smile like that—what made him look at him like that, but instead, he chose to remain quiet, the book was forgotten in favor of staring into the eyes of the man he’d happily give his life to if only he’d let him.

“Did you think that up all by yourself, Basil? Perhaps you should look into poetry.” His tone was lightly teasing, but that glimmer of sincerity was too present to miss, making Basil smile in return. It was a blessing from whatever gods of beauty existed that Dorian Gray had been allowed to exist at all, and Basil was fairly certain it was a curse that he’d been allowed to meet him; a curse for him or Dorian, he was still unclear on that, but he couldn’t find a way to make this end well for the both of them. That didn’t mean he would bother stopping before he went too far. If it wasn’t going to end well, it may as well end with a brilliant flash before Dorian faded from his life forever like the aftereffects of a poor photograph. 

“With you as my muse, I’d write sonnets of beauty to rival the Bard himself,” Basil murmured, the reverence in his gaze falling on unseeing eyes. 

“Oh Basil, you flatter me so.” Dorian smiled, and the world spun upside down and inside out, but that smile continued on like it was just another day. “What will you do once you tire of me, hm?” 

He said it as if it were possible, as if tiring of Dorian Gray were just something that any human could simply _do_ , and the thought was nothing short of ludicrous to Basil, and he expressed that with a light laugh and a shake of his head. 

Dorian raised an eyebrow, lifting his head from Basil’s chest and turning around so they faced each other. They were so close. The sweet air was sparking with something Basil couldn’t name, but couldn’t help but feel was right on the tip of his tongue. “Everyone seems to,” Dorian said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I never went out much, you know. And now Henry takes me all sorts of places. Shows me things, tells me things…” he paused, licking his lips, his expression thoughtful and miles away, before it snapped back to Basil. “And now I think I’ve begun to develop a taste for them.” His hand was wrapped around Basil’s back, holding him close, eyes wide with innocence that didn’t suit the words falling off his lips. “Do you think that’s a bad thing?” He asked, and it was so quiet it was like a wisp of smoke, fading into the nothingness that left nothing but a sensation of danger in the air. 

Dorian Gray was a mystery—from his beauty to his innocence to his complete _lack_ of innocence, and it was enough to make the world turn upside-down again. “That depends… I suppose… on what these things that you’ve developed a taste for,” Basil finally answered. 

“Oh, all sorts of things.” His head was on Basil’s shoulder, whispering in his ear. “If I listed them out, I’d be damned to Hell for eternity, I should think. I think Henry’s made me realize the wonders of sin.”

The word made Basil shiver, a tingle running up and down his spine. “And which sins, in particular, do you feel drawn to?”

“Oh, the lot of them. Do you think a man can commit every sin in the Bible in his lifetime? Perhaps I’ll make that my goal.”

“That sort of thing shows itself on a man, Dorian. I wouldn’t want to see your beauty ravaged by sin,” Basil said, managing to find his words. 

Dorian pulled back to look at him, an eyebrow quirked, the ghost of a smile on his face. “What would you see it ravaged by, then?” 

Basil moved his hand, moving to cup Dorian’s cheek, run his fingers across his cheekbone, down his neck, and then back up, tucking a wayward curl behind his ear and letting his hand rest on the back of Dorian’s neck. “Nothing. I hope nothing sinful touches your face for the rest of eternity.”

“Absolutely nothing?” There was an insinuation there, it was so obvious, clear as day, Basil couldn’t deny it for what it was if it had come from any other person in the world, but there was… it _couldn’t_ be an insinuation, not from someone with such innocence in their eyes, it was an impossibility, it was ludicrous to even think Dorian would ever be capable of saying such words. Implying such things. 

“Because,” Dorian carried on as if he hadn’t caused Basil’s heart to begin beating out of his chest as his brain processed what exactly was happening at the present moment, “I can think of one thing. But you’ll have to tell me if you truly don’t want it.” 

His reached up and ran two fingers across Basil’s lips, they were soft, not as much so as Dorian’s, not as flushed with color and life, but he didn’t seem to mind the imperfections of Basil’s face, the shadows under his eyes and the blemishes on his cheek. “I hope you won’t find it terribly impertinent of me, but I think I’d like to kiss you right now,” Dorian whispered, his hand finding a stable place at the base of Basil’s neck. 

“You could never be impertinent, Dorian. it doesn’t suit you,” was all Basil found himself able to say, staring at Dorian’s lips, wondering if perhaps he’d had a touch too much absinthe with Dorian in the parlor and this was all some sort of delightful dream, but then Dorian Gray was kissing him and he knew it was real. 

His lips were as soft as they looked, he was warm, pleasantly so, like he’d been touched by the sun for only the smallest amount of time possible, but it lived inside him. Yes, that was it. That was Dorian Gray. Someone with a sliver of the sun inside of them that shone through whenever anyone was granted the luxuriousness of his company, someone with the same irresistible pull, someone that fulfilled the want—the need—for never-ending warmth. Someone who could provide all of those things with a simple touch, a look, a word, a smile, a _kiss._ So incredibly irresistible that even when the sun had touched him it didn’t want to leave, but to relish in his presence the way everyone else did. 

The mystery of Dorian Gray persisted, even as Basil kissed him while leaning against the large oak tree in his garden, even as they made their way inside to Basil’s room when it began to grow dark, when Basil woke the next morning to find him sleeping so peacefully in his bed, and it even persisted for the weeks they spent together, to months, and until Dorian left, they drifted apart, the mystery left unsolved. 

That is, until the end. The very end for Basil, he had always known Dorian Gray would be the death of him, but he’d never thought it would be in that way. Basil would have rather lived his whole life never solving the mystery of the beautiful man he had so desperately fallen in love with, than finding out the horrors, the reality of who he was. The endless summer days, the cold nights, the weeks they’d spend in the garden or in the parlor, the way Dorian would beg to be taught a different piece on the piano every other day, changing his mind and growing bored so easily you would almost think him a child, the months and years of separation where Dorian would remain somehow unchanging the way Basil had always wished he would, it all came to nothing but that moment in that room. He would have done anything to help him, he would’ve painted a thousand portraits and prayed to any God that would listen and spent his life’s savings if it meant he could’ve saved Dorian’s soul. It was too late for that. Perhaps it was Basil’s fault for the painting as much as Dorian’s, they’d both wished for the same thing, after all, for that beauty to last forever, and Basil had been the one to paint it, to bring it to life. To bring it to life for such selfish reasons, to preserve the mystery, the beauty of Dorian Gray. It wasn’t as if it mattered, though, it was far too late. Al he could do was hope that Dorian looked at him as the light faded from his eyes, that he saw the forgiveness there.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @kaijuvenom
> 
> comments and kudos are appreciated uwu
> 
> also; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cVyqbeRcHcU


End file.
